


Say you'll see me again (even if it's just pretend)

by bellamees



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Mild Smut, Post-Canon, Protective Bellamy, Protective Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamees/pseuds/bellamees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Octavia is leaving with the Grounders, and Bellamy decides to go with her. Clarke doesn’t really like his decision — for several reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say you'll see me again (even if it's just pretend)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, Bellamy, you’re such a grammar freak, I can’t believe it.

“Why are you leaving?”

It’s Clarke, of course, storming into his tent, eyes ablaze, voice loud like thunder. She launches herself at him, pushing him before he can get away from her grasp — it throws him off, and he staggers on his feet, uneasy. Clarke has always been one to stab her fingers on his chest, but her sudden outburst of violence makes him speechless for about a second. Bellamy recovers fast, already knowing what she’s talking about. Still, he glares at her, putting his defenses up.

“I have no idea what our princess is talking about.”

“You know damn right, Bellamy,” he pushes past her, and Clarke holds his arm, keeping him in place. He groans, staring at her over his shoulder.

Clarke had gotten them a peace treaty — a wavering one, walking on the thin line of peace and war, but still a reliable treaty overall — between the remaining Mountain Men and the Grounders. Dante had helped them shape it after most of his people were killed; they were not to leave Mount Weather anymore, or try to harvest blood of any kind, if they could still live in peace inside their mountain. Clarke had been happy to put an end to the horrifying bloodbath that was the war. Lexa backed her up after some convincing. TonDC was devastated by the missile and the Clans were going to move north to settle again — Octavia walking alongside them.

“I won’t let Octavia—”

“We need you here!” Clarke sounds exasperated, still holding his arm firmly. He yanks his arm free, biting his tongue, resentment boiling on his insides. “Octavia is going to be fine, she’s strong—”

“I came down here to protect her and I won’t stop doing that, Clarke.” His voice rise above hers, and Bellamy takes a step towards her. Clarke doesn’t falter, her gaze strong and antagonizing, full of bitterness. There’s something in her eyes saying she doesn’t fully want to believe him, that she’s almost willing to conclude he’s fleeing with no other good reason, even though he knows that this is not something Clarke would do. “I won’t let her go alone to God knows where.”

Bellamy waits for her answer, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Her lips become one thin line, and he can see himself reflected on her eyes. He has an annoyed expression — Clarke has a worried one. For some reason his anger drips out of his body, leaving him empty of it. Hurt spreads all over his chest, uncomfortably dull, making his body stiff, stinging like splinters on his skin. Bellamy blames himself, shifting on his weight, trying to get rid of his feelings, all of them — but _her eyes_ , he can’t help it.

“You’ll be ten days away from here,” her voice goes down to a low, demanding tone. Bellamy wants to stop looking at her, because her disappointed face is harsh like absinthe, hot and burning on his insides. It’s strangely beautiful, like he’s seeing Clarke for the first time, her acid expression, how her teeth are not all lined and perfect, how there’s a bruise on her cheek, and he lingers on details as if he’s getting drunk on them. She’s all alluring. “I can’t take care of our people without you.”

Possessives, always getting under his skin. He’s unable to answer, he’s incapable of coming up with something to tell her, a witty remark or anything, really, and Bellamy blames the damn first person plural possessive adjective “ _our”_. Clarke has resumed her banter, her lips moving to form vowels and consonants, conjugating her verbs, throwing imperatives at him. Bellamy doesn’t listen — not much. He wonders for a moment if he ate any of those awful nuts by mistake, because he’s pretty sure Clarke has a light of her own and he really, definitely, surely, easily — and a lot of other adverbs — wants to kiss her.

“You should go.”

Her voice gets stuck in her throat as he points the entrance of his tent. Clarke’s eyes flare at him, confused and angry. He rather see her go than do something utterly stupid, and at this rate he won’t be able to hold back, because she’s so close, and she’s so ridiculously, what’s the word, _neat_ , and he’s lost his damned mind, probably, obviously, doubtlessly, adverbs, adverbs, _freaking adverbs_.

“We have to deal with this—”

“Clarke, just go.”

“I won’t!” She snaps, seemingly outraged, eyes all offended and sharp. It’s like having the air punched out of you, in an alarming good way. Clarke takes heaving breaths, as if she’s been running, and Bellamy hates how close they’ve gotten in the past ten seconds. He’s pretty sure his face is flushed.

“I’m going to kiss you then.” It’s all word vomit, and he curses himself, closing his eyes in a moment of frustration, seeing phosphenes explode behind them, like Clarke’s sheerness have engraved onto his retinas. Clarke opens her mouth to retort, but understanding soon reaches her eyes, and she holds back, stunned. Bellamy expects her to rush out, or slap his face, or something, anything — but she stands there, close, gaping at him with wide eyes. Speechless Clarke Griffin, who knew. When her voice comes back, her phonetics are all blurred out, nervous.  

“I’m sorry — remind me again when you last had a concussion.”

“Why, are you going to check me up?” Yeah, maybe a concussion happened somewhere in between Clarke walking in and their small altercation — that’s the only plausible reason for his lack of control and implied innuendos. But Bellamy indulges himself in making her face looks pinker, throwing Clarke off her game. _You won’t see her for a while_. The message fails to go through.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You’re still here.”

“Yes, because we still have to—”

And so he does. He kisses her lighter than he would have liked, holding the back of her head, fingers digging through her hair, like she’s something precious. Clarke’s skin smells clean. There’s a burst of panic inside his mind, a wave of terror as he realizes what he’s doing, what they’re doing, at how Clarke hasn’t pulled back yet, at how she almost kisses him back, her hands grasping the ends of his jacket, whether to stop him or to pull him in. Bellamy’s sure he’s going to ignite at any given moment. It’s over before he can feel his lungs failing. _You might not see her anymore._

“Now I’m pretty sure you hit your head.”

Bellamy can’t help but grin. He’s still holding her, and he knows he should let go, but it seems like a stupid idea, like everything he’s been doing through the entire day. Bad decisions are starting to weight down on him already. Letting go of Clarke is a bad decision, so he doesn’t. Her hair feels soft against his skin, and she’s warm, and she smells good, and the anger she’s been breeding inside of her seems to have disappeared along the way. Clarke’s still painful to look at, all pretty, all disapproving.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, then, very carefully brushing hair out of her face. “We’ll find a way. We got Raven’s radios. You’ve done fine without me before.”

Clarke finally nods, raising her eyebrows, looking unknowingly captivating. “You could have just talked to me, Bellamy.” He’s amazed at how Clarke so boldly stands her ground, unmoving, almost as if she doesn’t mind their proximity, or the kiss, or the fact he’s still holding onto her. Bellamy is pretty sure anyone can walk in on them — that her freaking mother can walk in on them. He brushes the thought away.

“What would be the fun in that, princess?” He smiles at her, but Clarke finally makes a movement to free herself, and Bellamy let go of her. The space she’s been filling feels like a void. “Clarke.”

“A cold shower would do you good,” she sounds breathless, finally aware of what happened, blushing all over her face, avoiding his eyes. Her voice is matter-of-factly, but Bellamy likes how she looks so nervous and out of place. Clarke stutters on her vocabulary before finally deciding leaving is the best idea ever. She walks around him, in that unsure fast-but-slow way people often use when they don’t really know what to do with themselves.

Some lines you can’t cross, but Bellamy decides what the hell, he doesn’t care anyway. He holds her wrist when she walks by, his fingers brushing against the palm of her hand fondly, and he can swear he feels Clarke shivering everywhere. Something tugs on his heart, and he fights the feeling away, like he’s been doing since — since he can’t even remember anymore. Clarke’s water-colored eyes look up at him and his forces against her crumble. It’s quite pathetic. “I meant it.” _The kiss_. “You’ll do fine without me.”

“We do better together.” Bellamy likes the way she emphasises ‘together’, the way she rolls her syllables between her teeth, how her voice sounds. It’s an engraved memory from the Ark — how people with better upbringing have just a slight of an accent, more proper, more formal. He just wants to kiss her all over again. Clarke takes a deep breath. “Are you leaving tomorrow then?”

“First light.”

“Okay — well. Good luck, Bellamy.”

Bellamy wants her to stay, and that’s a whole lot of wishful thinking and unresolved issues. Those moments before Clarke staying or leaving are the worst; they drag forever, consuming the oxygen around them. Bellamy doesn’t really remember how long it took, or if they said anything else, but he remembers the moment he grabbed Clarke, and she threw flimsy arms around his neck, and they were really kissing this time, hungry, starving, loosing their articles, their nouns, leaving only hyperboles and onomatopoeias. He lets go of the tension that has been building up for the past, hell, forever now, holding onto her body like he’s afraid she’s not real. Clarke’s not made of smoke and mirrors and dreams, no, and when she touches him it’s painful and keen and very much there.

Jackets, shirts, pants, undershirt, how many layers of clothes can one wear, they’re discarted aimlessly, he doesn’t even open his eyes. Bellamy deems himself feverish, and Clarke tastes like moonshine. He wants to ask her why she was drinking, and maybe that’s why she was rolling her R’s, and her skin feels hot to the touch as his hands learn her contours. Bellamy finally takes time to look at her, and she’s staring right back, eyes dark, porcelain skin, both of them heaving. They take each other in for a second or two, and he’s pretty sure he’s bewitched. The feelings he’s been pushing away come back to haunt him, whispering in his ears, and he’s not strong enough to push them aside. Clarke’s beautiful and he might — modal verb of possibility, because he still wants to think he stands a chance against her — love her.

The simplicity of it all astounds him.

“Clarke—”

“It’s okay.”

What happens next is a series of events inside a messy plot — repetition, anaphoras, allusions, they're all there. They sleep together and it feels more wholesome than any other time he’s done it. Bellamy finds himself suddenly selfless, suddenly so much more willing to give, give, _give_. He takes satisfaction in the way Clarke’s anxious face shatters under his touch, paying attention to her breathing, to the spots on her skin that make her writhe. Everything is slow and unsure, like they’re both completely clueless, like they’re pretty sure they’ll destroy each other if any of them go faster, like none of them want it to end.

It does end, at some point, like everything ends, and they’re lying beside each other, staring at the tent’s drapings, both short-winded, and Bellamy thinks it’s ridiculous that he’s smiling, except it's not. He steals a glance towards Clarke, admiring her profile, how much lighter her eyes are. They’re intimate enough for him to pull her into him, and Clarke doesn’t object, resting her head on his chest, cheeks flushed. Bellamy knows he has a choice to make now. Stay with Clarke or go with Octavia. The choice would’ve been easier if he could just replace Clarke with anyone else. “You should go with Octavia,” she says out of the blue, looking up at him, like she’s been prying into his thoughts just now. “I know you want to.”

“I want a hell lot of things right now,” Bellamy inhales audibly.

“I was not being reasonable,” she goes on, and there are hidden layers under her voice. He wants to know more about them. “It just feels like I'm losing you again.”

“You’re not losing me, Clarke.”

They don’t talk anymore, vocabulary stuck inside their mouths, neglected. He forgets how to conjugate verbs througout the night, as their bodies roll together again, and their hushered moans are variations of Present Perfect, whispers perfectly phonetical, fingers tracing vowels on each other’s skins. When morning comes, Bellamy’s body feels restless, but fluttery in that romanticized way people’s bodies feel after having sex with someone you actually (love) care about. Clarke’s asleep, her limbs tangled in his own, her breathing close to his neck, exhaling we’s and our’s.

Bellamy hears movement outside already. He recognizes Abby’s voice from afar, questioning about Clarke. It seems the Commander is paying a visit. He sighs, and Clarke stirs awake. His whole body squirms in that awfully good way as she stretches herself, and he has to concentrate arduously on actual problems — say, ten days of walking with Grounders, saying good-bye, possibly dying. “Your mom is looking for you,” he murmurs on her ear, and Clarke dashes awake finally, getting out of bed, clumsily reaching out for her clothes. “They’re here.”

They’re both dressed in minutes, stepping out of Bellamy’s tent like they have just been having a friendly conversation, carrying Bellamy’s stuff with them. The sky is changing colors as they walk through Camp, Bellamy watching Clarke’s face, the colors transforming her into a living painting, like she just walked out of The Starry Night. She’s got her Leader face, his favorite one.

The small group of people say their polite good-byes. When it comes to their turn, Bellamy is unsure of what to do. Clarke’s not, because she throws her arms around him like that one time, holding him so tightly he feels short of breath.

“Take care, okay?”

“You too, princess.”

None of them wants to let go. He wants to ask her to come with them, but knowing too well Clarke won’t leave their people behind like that. She’d move a freaking mountain to take all of them with her. Bellamy will come back to her, he’ll find a way — Future Simple. “I love you.” It’s Clarke’s voice, and he smiles into her hair. He whispers his love back before letting her go, finally. She waves a tiny hand as they leave. Bellamy feels like he's a teenager, not a good way to start a Grounder roadtrip, he knows. Octavia points it out, he doesn't mind. Love, one syllable, Clarke's tongue on her teeth, rolling the sounds together. Simple Present.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think Bellamy went back to Camp Jaha after making sure Octavia would be completely fine. But I don't know how to write happy endings, so this is what you get.


End file.
